


sparks

by plutoandpersephone



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, I Love You, M/M, Praise Kink, Wire Play, lap time, reverse au, they're in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 09:19:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19423054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plutoandpersephone/pseuds/plutoandpersephone
Summary: Connor thinks, often, densely, that he is in love with HK800.What do you do when you fall in love with the bear of an android who lives in your house? Experiment, that's what.





	sparks

**Author's Note:**

> a long promised reverse AU foray into wireplay.
> 
> thank you so much to the lovely mao [@chococo_mao](http://twitter.com/chococo_mao) for beta-reading this for me!

Connor thinks, often, densely, that he is in love with HK800.

Hank. _Hank._ That is what he had asked to be called following the revolution, when the streets had burned wild with change. It was what he had insisted on when Cyberlife sent an upgraded HK model to the precinct, clean shaven and dark eyed, in order to differentiate between the pair of them. 

(HK900 seems perfectly happy, however, with his model number in way of a name.)

So Connor is in love with Hank. An android. Who would have thought it?

After the revolution, Hank has nowhere to go. He suggests returning to Cyberlife in order to find accommodation, but Connor knows that’s a bad idea. Cyberlife is in pieces and looking for any excuse to decommission models, especially ones as controversial as Hank has proved himself to be. Hank must understand that too, because his suggestion is half-hearted and reluctant. In the end, he comes to live with Connor. 

Hank is an impeccable housemate - neat, quiet, organised. He spends exactly four hours every night in a period of stasis, and the rest of the nighttime hours he uses to download and practise subroutines which he thinks will enhance their living situation. He becomes a very passable cook. 

He berates Connor for his smoking and his drinking, which Connor finds annoying, but Hank assures him that he only does it because he cares about him. 

The admission makes Connor’s chest clench. He suspects it doesn’t have anything to do with the “early onset heart disease caused by smoking” that Hank had warned him about.

Hank brings home flowers for the kitchen table; he irons Connor’s shirts. He speaks in a voice that is low and calm and he has eyes that are the colour of a clear winter sky. Connor knows now that he is in love.

They have been living together for two months when Hank first reaches for Connor’s hand across the dinner table. Connor doesn’t pull away. He lets their fingers intertwine, taken by how warm Hank’s skin is, astonished by how loud he can hear his own heart in his ears.

Hank notices too, and he says as much. “Your heart is beating very fast, Lieutenant.”

“I’m nervous.” Connor frowns as he speaks, embarrassed. 

“Why would you be nervous?”

He finds it hard to look at Hank, to meet that steady gaze which is so very blue. It feels as if he can see straight through him. 

“I’ve been thinking about this for a while.”

“For how long?” Hank asks, matter of factly. As if it’s a simple thing to quantify, as if Connor can rewind his memories and pinpoint the exact moment that his feelings for Hank shifted from one form into another.

“Since before you moved in.”

“Oh.” Hank raises Connor’s hand to his lips, presses a kiss to the soft underside of his wrist. “That’s a long time.”

Before this, Connor had only considered the mechanics of sex with androids in a passing sense. Obviously he knew about the Eden Club models, for whom sex was their sole purpose. But models like Hank, who was built primarily as a police model, capable of investigative functions? What would they be equipped with?

That night, Connor discovers that it is not all that different from sex with humans. 

Beneath his perfect tailoring, Hank is built strong, with a broad chest and thick arms, synthetic muscles shifting beneath his skin. There’s a certain softness above his belt, and Connor wonders whether it has the give of a human belly, or if it’s merely the illusion of such. It doesn’t take long for him to find out that there is not a part of him that doesn’t feel extremely, realistically human.

The only clue to his android nature is that spiralling light at his temple and the soft, glowing ring that’s nestled just below his pectorals - the halo-like outline of his thirium pump. And, of course, the perfect, inhuman way he manages to preempt Connor’s every need, having him gasping into the mattress until he’s seeing stars. 

Okay, so he’s his fucking wettest dream. If he wasn’t already convinced that he was in love with Hank, he thinks - only half-jokingly - that that night would have swayed him. 

It comes as natural as breath, this change in their relationship. From partners, two moving parts working seamlessly together, to friends, living under the same roof - and finally to lovers. Hank has little to no refractory period in the bedroom, and seems rather intent on taking Connor apart at the seams. 

As attentive as he is, Connor can’t help but begin to wonder if Hank’s getting everything that he can out of their relationship. Although his body is a perfect replication of a human’s, Connor knows that beneath the surface there is an intricate web of wires and neural networks that far surpasses his human physiology, with his clouded lungs and arrhythmic heart. 

Surely he must feel things differently to Connor. Just as he is capable of scanning his surroundings in one easy swoop, just as he can imbibe thirium to heal any of his damaged biocomponents, there must be an android way of having sex. Outside of what they have already been experimenting with, at least.

Hank can’t possibly get everything he needs from having sex with a human, like a human, because he’s not human. It seems simple really, and Connor feels stupid and selfish for not having noticed it sooner. 

One night, as they’re lying together in bed, Connor broaches the subject. 

“What do you like?” Connor asks, his fingers threading a path through the soft silver hair on Hank’s chest. 

“That’s a broad question.” Hank considers his answer for a moment, and Connor waits with bated breath. “I like jazz music, particularly the works of Duke Ellington at the moment, and-”

Connor stops him with a loose cuff to his upper arm.

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.” He can tell from the lazy grin on Hank’s face that he was making a joke. He feels his heart swell several sizes against his ribcage.

Connor clarifies. “When we have sex. What do you like?”

Hank thinks about this answer more seriously, and Connor can tell from his productive silence, that he is compiling quite a list. “I like making you feel good. I like seeing your face when you come, particularly if it’s not the first time you’ve come that night. You make very pleasing noises. I like the feeling of my hand wrapped in your hair, or my arm around your waist, I-”

Hearing his own desires enumerated like this, rumbled out in the low timbre of Hank’s voice, makes Connor’s dick twitch in his boxers. Not the time. He reaches out a hand to stop him again. 

“That’s all great, really fucking great,” Connor says, squeezing Hank’s forearm. “But what about you? What makes you feel good?”

Hank frowns. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“All that stuff you said.” Connor props himself up on his elbows so that he can see Hank’s face. “It was all about me.”

“Yes.” Hank nods. “I like you.”

“And as absolutely fucking adorable as that is, Hank,” Connor runs a hand over his eyes, half enamoured, half exasperated. “I wanna know what you want. Outside of me.”

“I don’t want anything outside of you. I want-” Hank stops, as if reconsidering his phrasing. “I want everything inside of you.”

Connor settles his head back into Hank’s chest. “Honestly? That sounds incredibly creepy.” 

Hank laughs - a soft, unpractised sound. “I suppose.”

“Never mind.” Connor closes his eyes, listening to the thrum of Hank’s systems. As familiar as a heartbeat, and yet so very different. “We’ll talk about it another time.”

But Connor has never been the sort to just leave something once he’s set his mind to it. At the precinct, he’s earned something of a reputation for working himself for days on end, especially when they’re close to cracking a case. Taking half hour naps in the break room, subsisting on cups of black coffee. Hank joins him for every one of these hours, monitoring his vitals at regular intervals, making sure that he doesn’t do himself any irreparable damage. 

True to form, Connor takes on this new task with similar doggedness. 

He begins by doing some perfunctory research online, although searching “ _android sex_ ” and its related terms just brings up a slew of pornographic videos. He watches a few, only half interested. These videos are made by humans, for humans, and as a result, feel distinctly fetishising. He pushes the laptop closed. 

He doesn’t want to make Hank feel like an object, a toy to be played with; so many of these videos seem to suggest that that’s all androids are good for. He wants Hank to feel good. Special. Taken care of. 

Is there porn for androids? Porn made by androids? Perhaps. Connor doubts whether he would be able to get a hold of it on his laptop though. It probably exists in abstract lines of code, floating out there in some cloud-like android airspace.

He considers asking some of the androids who work with them at the police station. As quick as the thought passes through his head, though, he’s laughing it off. Imagine that. _Excuse me, I know you’re still embracing your new found humanity, but mind explaining the intricacies of android sex to this dumb fucker?_

Normally, upon finding himself at a dead end like this, he would talk to Hank. Or talk at Hank. Simply running ideas past him while he listened on with that level, unfaltering stare had been enough on more than one occasion to form new paths, find new headway, in a sticky case. 

But Connor’s decided, after his initial failure, that this is something he wants to work out without Hank’s input. He’s not sure if it’s kindness or stubbornness driving him. It’s probably a good measure of both, and alongside it, a strong desire to see what Hank might look like if Connor were to completely wreck him. 

So he calls the next most important person - yes, absolutely, person - in his life. He calls his brother. 

Since the revolution, Niles has become something of an expert on androids, both socially and academically. When visiting Connor, he’ll often ask Hank how he’s found the latest network update, or if he’s read any of The Chloes’ most recent articles. They talk numbers and statistics at a level that goes way above Connor’s head. They might as well be talking in binary.

Connor is nervous about making the call, honestly. Niles understands androids with such ease and fervour that he feels sure he’ll have the answer, but at the same time, Connor feels a bit stupid asking him at all.

It’s either that, or nothing. He takes a deep breath, and dials.

“Hello, Connor.” Niles answers the call after one ring. He must be at work.

“Hi, Niles.”

“What’s wrong?” Stupidly perceptive, as always, analysing the fluctuations in Connor’s words, his tone, the time of his call. Niles was making these deductions before androids were even a glint on the technological horizon.

“It’s a bit awkward.” Connor bites the rough skin at the edge of his thumbnail until it starts to hurt.

“Oh, excellent.” He can practically see Niles, feet up on the edge of his desk, dressed in black Versace like some kind of Bond villain. 

“It’s about androids.” There’s a pause at the end of the line. Clearly Niles can sense that he’s not finished. “It’s about Hank.”

“The HK model? HK800, is it? You know they released a number of HK900 models onto the market recently.”

“We’ve got one working at the precinct.” 

“Interesting.” He can practically hear the cogs in Niles’ head turning, and from what he knows of his younger brother, not all of the thoughts will be entirely savoury. “So, how can I help?”

“It’s about-” No use talking around the issue. Just get to the fucking point. “It’s about sex.”

“Sex?” Niles pronounces the word as though it has two very separate syllables. 

“Yes. Sex. Hank and I have been having sex.”

“Right.” His tone is absolutely unreadable. 

“And I wanted to ask your advice.” There is another pause on the end of the line and Connor suddenly has a sinking feeling that this was a really, extremely, goddamn stupid idea. He should’ve just been content with getting ploughed into the mattress by his tireless bear of a boyfriend. What sensible man would try and find a solution to that?

To his surprise, Niles doesn’t laugh, merely continues in that same even tone. 

“You’ve phoned me to ask for advice on how to have sex with the HK800 model that lives in your house?”

Ever the faultless summation. “Pretty much.”

“Well, I’m not going to say that I’m surprised.”

Connor feels his stomach fall several inches, as if each of Niles’ words were a heavy stone dropped directly into the open cavity of his chest. “What?”

“He’s clearly enamoured with you,” Niles explains. As if that’s going to make Connor feel any better. “I mean to say, it was only a matter of time.”

The edge of Connor’s nail starts to bleed. Although he’s long since accepted the fact that he’s in love with Hank, he’s never entertained the fact that Hank might feel the same way, and honestly, that is not something he’s prepared to examine right now.

“That’s not really what I wanted to talk about.”

“No, of course not.” He can hear Niles’ grin. “Well. What did you want to know?”

They talk for a charged half hour, in which Niles unloads a great deal of information onto Connor, a lot of it technical vocabulary that he doesn’t fully understand. Connor asks a few questions here and there, but mostly Niles unloads, far more information than Connor had ever thought possible. _How do you know all of this?_ He asks, at one point. _Oh, it’s purely academic_ , Niles replies. It’s a lie, and Connor can smell it a mile off.

A few things stick though, even sound appealing, regardless of the fact that they’re being detailed in his brother’s voice. Connor reads over his brief notes afterwards - chassis casing, panels, wiring - and resolves to try them as soon as the opportunity presents itself.

As it turns out, opportunity springs faster than Connor had bargained for. 

He and Hank finally close the case they’ve been working on for the past month - tracking down loose witness statements, cross-checking evidence, settling trial dates. As a reward, Captain North gives them a few days off. It is not customary to give androids extra time off, but it has long since become accepted that Connor and Hank come as a pair. 

“Get some rest.” She tells Connor, in a tone that says - _if you do not do this, I will know. And I will be pissed._ He nods.

“And you,” she says, turning to Hank. “Make sure he follows my instructions.”

Their street is dark by the time they get home, the last purplish strokes of sunset retreating over the backs of the houses. They have several bags of groceries on the back seat, greens sprouting over the top of the brown paper. A few jars of passata. Fresh pasta. Not things that Connor would have bought home before Hank. He feels his heart flutter in that familiar way, silly and sweet.

As far as Connor is concerned, the best time to try something new is straight away and as quickly as possible. Even if diving in straight away means you get knocked about a bit.

So as soon as the door is closed and the bags are on the kitchen table, Connor crowds Hank up against one of the lino-topped counters. Hank’s got a good three inches on him and a good deal more breadth, but he’ll be damned if he’s not going to try his very best, arms braced on either side of Hank’s wide body.

“Hi.” He speaks the word against Hank’s mouth, relishing the slight scratch of his beard against his chin. He’s already imagining it between his thighs, the warm slick of his tongue and - stop. Try and keep this about Hank.

Hank smiles. Connor can feel it, his mouth moving against his lips. “Lieutenant Stern, how can I help you?” 

Connor kisses him, slow and just once, pressing their bodies together. His hands don’t leave the kitchen counter.

“I’d like to try something.”

“Oh?” Hank quirks a pale eyebrow. “Does this something take place in the bedroom, by any chance?”

Connor traces Hank’s jawline with his lips. “I’d like it to.”

“I see.” He raises one of his hands, allows his finger to follow the sharp line of Hank’s lapel. “And does this something require either of us be naked?”

“Both of us, ideally.”

Hank presses a kiss to Connor’s lips, but it’s brief and chaste. He pulls away before Connor has the chance to deepen it.

“Then I’m afraid it will have to wait.” 

Connor is sure he’s misheard. “Wait, what?”

“The Captain has instructed you to rest. I know you well enough to suspect that what you have planned will not involve any rest.”

Connor frowns. He knows Hank is right. Beneath the buzz of his arousal, pulsing like adrenaline in the veins, he is dog tired, right down to the marrow of his bones.

“Fine.” Connor sounds less cool, accepting lover, more bratty child.

“Connor.” Hank presses his hand flat against Connor’s sternum. “I’m not going anywhere. Go and rest. I’ll still be here.”

A warm bubble of affection rises in Connor’s chest and bursts somewhere just below his throat, rendering him speechless for a long moment. He supposes that’s the root of it, this high strung lifestyle that Connor leads, this rush to jump into the water. That fear that he will miss things. That things will leave.

And Hank understands that. The thought makes his eyes prick. 

“Get yourself some sleep. I’ll walk Sumo.” Connor steps back and lets Hank place a kiss to his cheekbone. At the mention of his name, Sumo stirs in the corner, lollops his way over to them. “And I’ll make you something to eat.”

“Thank you.” His voice sounds shaky. How incredibly typical of him. One minute, raring to go, cornering Hank against the kitchen counter, the next, standing in the middle of his kitchen, close to tears. God, he really must be tired.

Hank doesn’t mention it. He gives Connor another kiss, before gathering up Sumo’s leash and heading out of the door, the St. Bernard padding heavily along after him. The door clicks shut and the house is quiet. 

Alone in the house, Connor takes a shower and puts on his rattiest old band t-shirt. Now that he allows it to, tiredness drapes itself around him like an old cloak, heavy on the slope of his shoulders. He considers putting on a record - Hank left the Duke Ellington out of its sleeve - or reading a book, one of the paperbacks that he has stacked up on his nightstand.

In the end, sleep prevails over any of these plans. Blackness takes him as soon as his head touches the pillow.

When Connor wakes, the bedroom is bathed in a golden half light, falling in thick, honeyed bands over his bed covers. He turns on his side and fumbles for his cellphone, tapping the screen so he can check the time. Wide-eyed, he realises that he has slept for over twelve hours. 

He lays back against the pillows for a minute and allows the sounds of the house to wash over him. The low hum as a car streaks by. Hank in the kitchen, the deliberate noises of pots and pans, the sizzle of something frying. And he listens closely, he can hear - or perhaps he can imagine - the sound of the water, running behind their garden.

Hank smiles at him as he pads, barefoot, out of the bedroom. 

“Good morning.” 

Connor has to stop for a second and take Hank in. There is nothing particularly unusual about his appearance, but sometimes Connor is taken aback by just how very handsome he is. Silver hair tied back into a neat ponytail, blue eyes shining very clear. That distinguished ridge of his brow.

He’s abandoned his normal attire of button down and jacket in favour of a white t-shirt and jeans and Connor can see every muscle shift in his forearms. The way the fabric stretches just a little tight over his belly.

It’s a lot for Connor to take in.

“I made you breakfast,” Hank says, pouring a mug of coffee from the French press. Steam rises in pale tendrils.

On the table is a small selection of different dishes, sliced fruit, yoghurt. Bacon and eggs crackle together in the frying pan on the stove.

“Thank you.” Connor takes a seat with his back to the window, and Hank sits across from him. With his face lit like this, elbows leant on the table, he looks like some benevolent lord beneath a much younger sun.

As Connor eats, he feels watched. Not unpleasantly so, but watched, nonetheless. They talk, mostly about the recently finished case, and Hank tells him about a dog he and Sumo met when they were out the previous evening. Sumo sleeps deeply on his bed in the corner of the kitchen. It’s gentle and pleasant, but Connor can’t help but feel like there’s something resting between them, embers burning low.

When he’s finished, Hank clears the plates, waving him away when he offers to help.

“Go and sit down. It’s your day off.” Connor opens his mouth to protest that it is, in fact, Hank’s day off too, but he stops him. “Sit down. I’ll be over in a minute.”

He dries off a plate and places it on the counter. “Please, Connor. I’d like to talk more about the… something new to which you alluded last night.”

Connor’s stomach flips, a wave of nerves. Right. That thing.

“Okay?” Hank is smiling calmly at him, a mischievous glint in his eye. Connor knows full well that he can detect the sudden spike in his heartbeat, and that bastard finds it funny.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Hank’s request makes Connor’s ten minutes of mindlessly watching the morning news feel like ten hours. By the time Hank has settled himself down on the sofa next to him, Connor can feel his palms begin to sweat. He knows this feeling well: nerves, adrenaline, desire, all rolled into one.

He switches off the television.

“Do you trust me, Hank?” Connor asks. Hank regards him, gaze steady, cool.

“Implicitly.”

“Okay, good.” He turns his body so that he’s facing Hank. “And you know that if I ever do something you’re uncomfortable with, you can just say, right? Whatever it is, I’ll stop.” 

A nod. Hank’s face gives nothing away. “I’m curious, Connor.”

Connor smiles. “So am I.”

“You’ve planned something.”

Connor thinks of his poorly taken notes, his perfunctory research. Maybe he should have thought about this in a bit more detail before going ahead with it. Maybe he should have done a lot of things.

“Sort of.”

“Are you going to tell me what it is?”

“I thought,” Connor toys at the neck of Hank’s t-shirt with one, thoughtful finger. Hank’s skin is very warm, the hum of an almost pulse beneath the sinews of his neck. “I thought it could be a surprise.”

“A surprise?” Hank’s tone is hard to read. Connor knows that as a machine, Hank would have found the unpredictability of a surprise hard to cope with, but in deviancy… Perhaps he’s as intrigued by it as a human would be. 

“Yes.”

Hank considers Connor for a long moment. Weighing it up in the finely tuned scales of his mind. “Alright.”

Connor’s heart jumps. “Okay. And if you don’t like it-”

“Say stop.” Hank finishes the sentence, his hand wrapping loosely around Connor’s wrist. “And you’ll stop.”

“Right.”

A beat. Hank’s mouth finds Connor’s.

Things start slow, familiar. Connor turns his body so that he’s flush with Hank’s side, one arm slung loose around his shoulders. His other hand plays with the hem of Hank’s t-shirt, rucking it up, fingers running through the soft grey hair at his belly. Why Cyberlife bothered making Hank so endlessly true to life is a mystery to him, but it’s certainly not something that he’s going to complain about. He presses his hand against the slight softness and Hank gasps into his mouth.

Hank kisses him with a delicious, agonising slowness, taking his time, gauging each of Connor’s reactions. That bittersweet taste of his mouth, the warm slide of his tongue. His big hand on Connor’s jaw, tracing gentle circles below his earlobe.

It doesn’t take long until he’s hard in his boxers. Hank shifts his weight so that he’s pressed up against Connor, forcing Connor to put his arms back to brace himself. Hank takes the opportunity to cup Connor’s hips in his hands. Connor’s just as resourceful, using the space to unbuckle Hank’s jeans and pull them to his knees. 

The forthrightness makes Hank chuckle, sliding his hands over to hold tight to Connor’s waist. God, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get sick of the feel of those palms, rough, heavy, working into his flushed skin. 

“Come here.” Hank’s voice is low, a commanding rumble that goes straight to Connor’s dick. He does as he’s told, climbing over the bulk of Hank’s thigh so he’s sitting in his lap, their chests pushed flush together. He can feel the hard line of Hank’s arousal through the thin material of his boxers.

Once Hank had explained to him why he was equipped with such generous genital components - the first time Connor had stared, open mouthed, at his hard dick, fairly certain that there was no way he was going to take the whole thing. Connor doesn’t remember the explanation now, distracted by the fact that he’s pressed so close to Hank, and that one slow roll of his hips is enough to elicit a flush of heat through his whole body.

“This is nothing new, Lieutenant.”

Hank’s not wrong. They’ve done this more times than Connor can count. Still. Wouldn’t it just be so easy to rock himself to release in Hank’s lap, dick pressed against Hank’s belly, spilling hot and desperate into his boxers?

He slows the jerk of his hips, controls himself, refocuses; tries to quell that tight clench in his gut that would end this all far earlier than he wants. His fingers to begin to wander, along Hank’s shoulders first, down over his biceps, his elbows, the strong muscles of his forearms. 

“Be patient,” Connor murmurs.

“You’re one to talk,” Hank retorts, a wry smile curling the corners of his mouth. Connor palms Hank’s dick through his boxers, sudden and rough enough to make him gasp, mouth suddenly falling slack.

“Okay?” Connor grins.

Hank’s eyes are very dark, the blue reduced to no more than a narrow ring. “You’re a menace.”

Connor nods. No disputing that. 

Slowly, he allows his fingers to find inside of Hank’s left thigh, running along the velvet-smooth skin there. Hank rocks into the press of his palm, as if willing his fingers to move higher, to take him in hand and curb some of that pressure that Connor knows is crackling beneath his skin.

Connor keeps his touch focused, more deliberate than usual. Feeling along the ridge of synthetic muscle in Hank’s thigh as if he’s looking for something.

He moves slow. It takes a few minutes before anything happens.

Connor mouths at the line of Hank’s neck, presses kisses against his beard, to his cheeks, beneath his eyes. All the time, pressing one of his hands into the slight give in the flesh of Hank’s thigh.

He’s about to it give up as bad information, or else chalk it down to his clumsy hands when suddenly. Suddenly. There. There’s a faint click between them like the depress of a button and Hank’s skin dissolves beneath Connor’s fingers, exposing the pearlescent white of Hank’s chassis. A small patch, about four inches across, below the crease where his hip meets his thigh.

“Oh.” Hank sounds surprised at his body’s reaction. Connor knows that he doesn’t need to breathe, but when he presses down and the panel slides to the side, exposing a neat strip of wiring, he’s certain that he hears Hank take a sharp inhale.

“Are you okay?” Connor asks.

“Yes, I’m okay.” His voice sounds precarious, as if each word is balanced on the edge of a knife. “You’ve exposed a section of very sensitive wiring.”

“Have I?” Connor mutters, as if that wasn’t his plan all along. “Sensitive how?”

“I’m not sure.”

Connor takes a deep breath. 

“Can I touch it?” He asks, his fingers hovering above the the exposed panel. It casts a gentle blue glow over his palm. 

“Please.” Hank’s voice splits down the middle. Is it want? Connor wonders. Is it want renting his words in two? Something desperate and intangible that he doesn’t understand beyond the low murmur of that single word?

Index finger first, Connor gently strokes along one of the wires, watching in awe as he disappears inside Hank’s body. Hank jerks into the touch, his mouth falling open, a wordless moan escaping from his lips. It’s unlike any sound Connor has ever heard him make.

“Is that-?” Connor asks, prepared to withdraw his hand, but Hank grabs him by his wrist. Holds him where he is. 

“Don’t stop.”

Connor doesn’t need to be told twice. One hand braced against Hank’s belly, he allows himself to explore the tangle of wires, stretched tight against the opening, slick with thirium.

“Is this- oh.” A whine escapes from the back of Hank’s throat as Connor presses in a bit harder. The wires feel very warm, crackling beneath Connor’s fingers. “Is this what you were looking for?” Hank gasps, his voice run through with static.

Connor nods, watching Hank. His eyes are half-closed, his jaw clenching and unclenching with every new push of Connor’s hand. 

He takes his thumb and forefinger and runs them along either side of one of the thicker wires, buried a little deeper in the mess of blue and white and grey. The motion makes Hank’s eyelids flutter, exposing the whites of his eyes for the briefest of moments. Connor made his fucking eyes roll back into his head. Jesus Christ.

“How does it feel?” Connor asks. His own voice is rough with desire, each sordid moan from Hank’s lips making his dick ache. 

Hank seems incapable of speech, but Connor presses on, sticking the rest of his fingers into the space. Each touch sends a spark running through his hand, through his palm, and each touch pulls more guttural noises from the very back of Hank’s throat.

“Hank, baby, can you tell me how it feels?” Part of him is desperate to know exactly how Hank is feeling, exactly what Connor is doing to him. But part of him - that hard, desperate part - wants to hear Hank’s voice again. He wants to hear how utterly wrecked he sounds.

“Every part of me is lit up,” he gasps.

It’s a touch poetic, Connor thinks, but he understands exactly what Hank means. Hank has made him feel that way before, as if every part of his body is crackling with electricity, taut with pressure. Hank has pushed and pulled at Connor until he is a similar mess, rocking his hips and gasping against the bow of Hank’s mouth.

And that gives him an idea.

He shifts a little in Hank’s lap, squeezing his thighs tighter around Hank’s own, his fingers continuing that same, slow pace, wrapped in slick-warm heat. He knows that Hank doesn’t need to breathe, but still whatever illusion of breath he has is coming thick and fast, his head thrown back to expose the long, pale line of his neck.

Hank’s dick is untouched between them, hard and leaking precome onto his belly. Connor knows that he’s close, and something inside him - something dark and devilish, something that makes him almost buckle with arousal - tells him that Hank wouldn’t need his dick to be touched at all in order to come. Not with Connor four fingers deep in his wiring. The thought makes Connor’s head spin.

“Do you want me to carry on?” Connor asks. He can hear the audacity in his own voice, but he’s not sure if Hank picks up on it, not with his hands working bruises into the softness at Connor’s hips. 

At the question, Hank looks up at him, his gaze a hard glare beneath heavy eyelids. “You have to.” 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to touch you somewhere else?” He asks, tweaking one of Hank’s nipples with his free hand.

“Connor.” It’s a warning, and Connor grins. Hank knows him well enough now to be able to tell when he’s up to something. He slips his fingers slowly out of Hank’s thigh, and the movement makes Hank’s hips cant upwards, his head twisting to the side. There is a staticky noise that could well be Connor’s name.

“I could touch you here,” Connor’s left hand, slick with thirium, comes to join his right, playing with the softness of Hank’s chest. “If you wanted.”

Hank doesn’t reply. He stares at Connor, affronted, as if he has done him some great disservice. 

“Or here.” Connor’s hands slip lower, around the swell of Hank’s belly. His fingers press into the soft divots at his hips where he knows that Hank is sensitive, although he really shouldn’t be, android anatomy considered. 

“Connor-” Hank’s voice is quiet, more static than speech. The sound makes Connor very aware of how hard he is, and he pulls his boxers clumsily over his ass so that he can give himself a few, half-hearted strokes. Just enough to take the edge off, to refocus himself on the man falling apart beneath him.

“I could do that for you too, if you wanted?” Connor wraps his hand around Hank’s dick, swiping his thumb through the precome that pools at the head. He strokes him once, twice, each movement making Hank’s hips roll and buck. Connor has to grasp onto his shoulder to keep himself steady. “Is that okay?”

“Please.”

The word is small, a desperate crackle of static that makes something surge, bright and wild, in Connor’s chest. God, _god_. He loves.

“Hank. What would you like?”

Hank takes a moment before he speaks. Connor can practically hear the whirr and click of his systems as he rights himself. “Touch me like that but, ah - put your _fucking fingers_ back inside me.”

Hank never swears. The harshness of the words and the roughness his voice make Connor bite down hard on his bottom lip, shifting himself closer so that their chests are pressed together. 

“Okay, baby. Okay. I’ve got you.” He wraps his right hand around Hank’s dick and his own, stroking them both together. The slick heat is enough to pull something tight in Connor’s gut, a delicious friction that sends the steady movement of his hand uneven and erratic. Hank brings his own hand up to join him, his fingers huge and thick over Connor’s.

Connor gasps into Hank’s shoulder, bites down against his skin. The mark lingers, a perfect ring of blue and white. 

It’s a tight fit, as he slides his left hand in between them so he can put his fingers back into Hank’s thigh. He can’t get quite the same purchase as last time, but - judging from the moan that falls from Hank’s lips as Connor’s fingers slide against his wires - that isn’t an issue. His insides are hot, practically burning, the desperate sparks of electricity coming in sporadic bursts. 

They do not stay like this for very long. Connor is not sure whether his hand is guiding Hank’s, or if it is the other way round, but what he is certain of is the press of Hank’s mouth against his own, his tongue, his lips. The way his teeth graze the swell of Connor’s bottom lip. 

Connor comes first, his cry buried in the crook of Hank’s neck, spilling over both of their hands. He slumps against Hank’s chest as his orgasm rocks through him, both of his hands gone slack and useless for a moment. Hank strokes him through it, his other arm wrapping around the slender slip of Connor’s waist, holding him close.

“You’re so good.” Hank speaks the words against Connor’s temple. And again, and again. “You’re so good.”

Connor chokes a sob into Hank’s hair. What has he done to deserve this?  
“Are you okay?” Hank asks, pulling his head back so that he can see Connor’s face. Connor sits up a little straighter, tries to shake some of the feeling back into his boneless body.

“Yes.” Connor smiles, traces one finger from the edge of Hank’s collarbone - perfect and unnecessary beneath his skin - to the top of his thigh. “I want to make you feel good.”

Hank gives him a look, as if to say: _don’t be so hard on yourself._ Connor has seen that look before, although never quite in this scenario. “What you were doing was perfect.”

Connor nods. With his own arousal quelled - somewhat, at least - he curls his hand around Hank’s dick, slides his fingers into his thigh; into that mess of wires and dark blue thirium, a pattern of which is pressed all over Hank’s chest from where Connor had let his hands roam.

Connor’s fingerprints will disappear soon. Only Hank will be able to see them.

It doesn’t take long before Hank is panting again, his hands pressing almost too tight into Connor’s waist and hips, grabbing at every inch of him as if that will steady him. Connor continues to press his fingers into the tangle of Hank’s wiring, unsure what works best, but running his fingers through and over until Hank’s head falls to meet Connor’s shoulder.

“Connor.” His name is uneven, two syllables stretched out into many. “Connor - I’m-”

That’s all the warning he gets. It’s enough. With a shout, Hank buckles forward, almost dislodging Connor from his lap. He doesn’t come into Connor’s fist as he would have expected, but between the fingers in Hank’s thigh there is a heat that surges, brighter and brighter until he has to retract his hand or else risk getting burned by it.

The heat peaks, white-hot, until it snaps - a sudden shiver of electricity that slams through the pair of them. 

It pulses, a single, glorious wave, and as it crashes down around them, all the lights in the house go out. 

There is a long moment where they sit in the half-darkness, orange light filtering through the closed living room curtains, Hank’s head against Connor’s chest. Connor wonders if he is conscious, or whether his systems have sent themselves into some kind of soft reboot. 

“Shit.” Connor mutters. “Hank?”

“I don’t know how I did that.” Hank’s voice is weak, shaking around the edges. “It must have been-”

“It was fucking magical,” Connor says, sitting back so that he can take Hank’s face between both of his hands. “Don’t try and explain it.”

Hank nods. “I won’t.”

“Was it good?” Connor doesn’t think the question needs asking, but he needs to hear Hank say it.

“It was… hard to describe.” Hank leans into Connor’s touch. “Thank you.”

Connor strokes his thumb over Hank’s cheekbone and it leaves a mark, bluer than his eyes. 

“Connor?” 

“Hm?” Connor’s finger follows the shape of his own name on Hank’s lips.

“I love you.” 

The words are three bright lights in Connor’s chest. He wonders if there is any reply that would echo that swell of feeling, that would reflect how much the words mean to him. He supposes not.

He finds all that he needs, in the end. 

“I love you.”

Six words, exchanged like sparks between them, hanging in the golden light of their silent house.

**Author's Note:**

> come at yell at me on twitter: [@andpersephone](http://twitter.com/andpersephone)


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